


Let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater

by Elisexyz



Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [7]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Either read works, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Pre-Slash or Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29809134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: If Napoleon never has to see any snow again, it will be too soon.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142537
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	Let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater

**Author's Note:**

> This goes out to all the poor souls that suffered through my MCD fic LOL. It's for day 2 of Febuwhump, prompt "I can't take this anymore", but it's way softer than it has any right to be. I think we've all earned it tbh LOL.  
>  The title is from "Sweater weather" by The Neighbourhood, because I've had a cover of that song stuck in my head for days and it fits, so. Enjoy!

If Napoleon never has to see any snow again, it will be too soon.

“That’s it,” he mutters, making an effort to speak in spite of his chattering teeth. “I can’t take this anymore.”

Illya appears behind him, wrapping another blanket tight around him and rubbing his arms up and down, supposedly to generate some heat, but Napoleon highly doubts that it will do much: the cold has insinuated itself in his _bones_ , it’s _eating him alive_ , and if not even the fire in front of him is helping, he doubts that another blanket that smells nauseatingly like old wood is going to save him.

“I’m going to _die_ here,” he gets out, his voice wavering as he shivers. He tries to bury himself further in the cocoon of blankets and scarves, because he can handle the smell better than the cold, and he glances at Illya, who has gone back to looking around the cabin, presumably in search of more layers to throw on him. “It was nice knowing you, Peril—well, for the most part. I’m still not over that time you almost killed me.”

Illya doesn’t even turn, forcing a drawer open on the second try. “Which one?”

“When you _meant_ it,” he clarifies, shifting as best as he can to glare at his partner, who has apparently found a towel and is shaking it around to check for spiders and the likes.

It became clear that checking was entirely necessary when, near the beginning of his search for things to chase away the hypothermia with, Illya tossed a scarf at him and Napoleon found a giant, _hairy_ spider on it. His shriek was entirely undignified, but at least Illya refrained from making fun of him and from then on he simply started scrolling anything he meant to wrap around him.

Apparently, not making fun of him for his reaction consumed all of Illya’s trying-not-to-be-an-asshole filter for the day, because he raises his eyebrows at him, his voice even as he says: “That doesn’t narrow it down as much as you think.”

Napoleon huffs, frowning as Illya unceremoniously puts the towel over his head and starts committing crimes against his poor hair under the disguise of drying it. Napoleon would try to shoo him away, but he has his arms wrapped around himself and buried under the blankets in an attempt at keeping warm, and he’s positive that if he got out even one hand he’d lose a couple of fingers. No thanks.

“You should be nice to me,” he mutters. “I’m _dying_.”

“No, you aren’t,” Illya says, drily, apparently deciding that his hair has suffered enough for now and going back to his search.

“I’m positive I am,” Napoleon insists, and hopefully he is not wrong because he’d much rather drop dead than keep shivering like this for another minute. “I think I should at least get some snuggles out if it.”

He isn’t sure what kind of rebuttal he had anticipated, but he certainly wasn’t prepared for Illya to keep going about his business and very nonchalantly say: “Give me a few minutes.”

Napoleon blinks.

“Uh,” he gets out, very eloquently. “That—wasn’t a hard no.”

Illya levels him with an unimpressed look. “It wasn’t a no at all,” he says, drily. “I am not letting you freeze to death. I would have to carry you out of here, there would be a lot of paperwork and a black spot on my record.”

Ah, well. That was almost touching, for a second.

“Please,” he snorts, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder and deciding that no, it doesn’t generate much heat, so it isn’t worth moving for. “The KGB would give you a _medal_ if they found out you got your American partner killed.”

Illya spares a second to glare at him, and Napoleon isn’t sure if he’s _seeing_ things, but he thinks he caught a glimpse of _something_ there, something that wasn’t annoyance and that he sure as hell hopes wasn’t _guilt_ , because he was just _kidding_ , for Christ’s sake.

“Not that it was your fault,” he’s quick to amend, just in case, because it really wasn’t.

“I know,” Illya says, flatly. “It was yours.”

Wait— _what_?

“It _wasn’t_ ,” he sputters, outraged. “It could have happened to anybody!”

He was just unlucky, alright? They were _all_ walking on ice, it certainly can’t be considered his fault if he _happened_ to step on a spot that decided to crack under his feet. And even if it could, the dive into the frozen water in itself would have been punishment enough.

Fortunately, his stay in the lake was short, because Illya caught his wrist before he was fully submerged – alright, perhaps only his hands were sticking out at that point, but better than nothing – and, between his superhuman strength and Napoleon shrugging off his bag when it started slipping, instead of holding onto it as he probably should have, he yanked him out quickly enough.

Still, that doesn’t mean that he isn’t going to have nightmares about the feeling of needles sticking out of every inch of his skin or the way he’d panicked for a moment when the shock from the icy water had pretty much kicked his breath away.

Not to mention, he was still left soaked: he made the rest of the way back wearing Illya’s coat and Gaby’s scarf, but still feeling like every little bit of warmth was quickly leaving his body. Gaby led the way, while Illya walked behind him to shield him from the worst of the wind: Napoleon supposes it helped a little, but he really couldn’t tell. He didn’t even have the energy to protest when Illya started keeping a solid hold of his collar to make sure he didn’t fall over, because he did stagger about a dozen times – it wasn’t his fault, alright, he couldn’t even feel his feet anymore—if Illya had offered to throw him over his shoulder and carry him the rest of the way, he might have accepted.

He realizes too late that, if Illya replied to his vehement protest, he totally missed it. Somehow irritated at not having had the last word, he’s almost tempted to fight back his exhaustion and ask him to repeat whatever it is that he said, so that he might think of a proper and clever reply.

Instead, he ends up sinking a little further into himself, jumping on his seat when Illya announces that he can’t find any more blankets.

Next thing he knows, Illya has checked that the fire is still going strong and he’s bending over him, giving him a shake. “Get up,” he says, like that’s somehow a reasonable request.

“I _can’t_.” And, frankly, he doesn’t want to. “You’ve made me into a giant burrito.” Honestly, he thinks he would tip over if he tried to stand up.

Illya considers him for a moment, amusement flashing on his face, then he just nods. Napoleon is just about to revel in his win, close his eyes and call it a day, when that absolute bastard of a partner he finds himself saddled with decides to grab him and _pull him on his feet_.

His first instinct is trying to move his arms to steady himself, but he has, as mentioned, been turned into a giant burrito, and before he has the time to figure out how to free himself Illya has already slipped past him, got comfortable on the armchair, and pulled him back down.

Right on his lap.

Which, okay. Sure.

“So, uhm.” Try as he might, he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to make of this, he just knows that it’s doing funny things to his intestines. “I’ll just sit here then?”

“It is this or you give me one of your blankets,” Illya says, evenly.

“Nope,” he immediately chirps, because there is no way that he’s suffering through _that_. “Here is perfect!” And, well, it kind of his. Which is kind of a problem, but not one that he feels like dealing with right now.

He’s quick enough to get settled comfortably, and having Illya’s arms wrapped around him does wonders for his body temperature – how much of it is actual heat and how much is panic born out of the unusual proximity he couldn’t tell, but it’s nice all the same –, to the point that it isn’t long before he starts thinking that he might just drift off.

Which, of course, is exactly when Gaby decides to burst in, forcing the door open with a grunt, because it’s an old and terrible door that roots itself in place when it’s too cold, apparently.

“There’s a functioning truck,” she announces, a little breathless, after having slammed the door closed again. “I think it _might_ last all the way to the nearest town, but I wouldn’t take it out in this weather unless it’s an emergency.” She pauses. “Are you dying anytime soon, Solo?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, emphatically, because apparently hearing the sound of the blizzard outside was enough to remind his body that’s it’s _ridiculously cold_ , and now he’s shivering violently again.

“He’ll be fine,” Illya immediately contradicts him, and though he can’t see it he’s sure there was an eye-roll involved there. “You should come warm up too,” he adds then.

“Any blankets left?” Gaby asks, after a few moments.

Illya shakes his head, and Napoleon refuses to feel bad about hogging all the blankets. He is the only one who fell into a killer lake, after all.

“I’ll just have to join in then,” she says, nonchalantly. Fortunately for them all, she fits without too much difficulty at Illya’s other side, tucked between the two of them. She does steal one of Illya’s arms away from him, but Napoleon is not about to complain about having an extra body pressed against him.

“Still breathing down there?” he still asks, in a moment of uncharacteristic human compassion, because it must not be too comfortable to be crushed by two people, warmth or not.

“Yes,” Illya says, curtly, shifting a little underneath them and adjusting his grip on him.

“Good,” Napoleon sighs, closing his eyes and letting himself slump some more. “I wouldn’t have moved anyway.”

The first time he wakes up, it’s to a violent shiver.

It takes him a few moment to identify the culprit, namely Illya’s awful hand pressed against his temple.

“ _Peril_ ,” he protests, his tongue heavy and his best attempt at escaping the touch being an awkward shake of his head. “You are _cold_.”

The awful hand retreats, and Napoleon hunches a little on himself, trying to get warm again.

He hears Illya hum. “That is good sign,” he comments, but Napoleon doesn’t care to decipher what that might mean.

“No more cold hands,” he mutters, sealing his eyes closed and vowing not to move for the next week or so.

The second time he wakes up there’s talking greeting him. He doesn’t catch the first few words, and he isn’t even that curious in all honesty, because he’s warm and comfortable and so sleepy that he can hardly feel his own body.

“Yeah, that one is fine,” is the first phrase that he registers, coming from Illya, still acting as his living and breathing pillow. He revels a little in the comforting weight of his arm tight around him, smiling faintly without meaning to as he forces one eye open, just to see what is going on.

What he finds is Gaby, up and about and carefully tending to the fire. Good, fire is important.

Having found that there is no pressing concern to keep him awake, he hums sleepily, closing his eyes once again and nuzzling against Illya’s blissfully warm neck – best place in the world, he decides right then and there.

This might just have been worth almost freezing to death for.

The first thing he notices is that he’s warm. Almost _too_ warm, really.

He hums, as if to announce his return back to the land of the living, and to his dismay he has to acknowledge a lingering headache tormenting him and waves of heat running through him, to the point that the scarf wrapped around his neck feels suffocating.

“Feeling any better?” Gaby asks, before he has even fully registered her presence. She’s sitting next to him, though only her legs are in his personal space, since she’s seated on the armrest.

It takes a few extra moments for him to remember that she’s referring to his plunge in the lake of death, and though his thoughts are still a little hazy he supposes that the answer to that is yes, considering that he’s eagerly trying to wrestle himself out of his cocoon of blankets – enough to get one arm out and remove the scarf, at least – and he’s a little sweaty at this point.

“I feel a little less like death, yeah,” he concedes, rubbing his face with one hand.

Then, as he better presses himself against the armchair, he’s reminded of a little tiny detail from his experience with hypothermia, a tiny detail that he probably shouldn’t start unpacking before he’s someplace where he can freak out in peace.

“Where’s Peril?”

He still can’t believe the bastard let him sleep on his lap. Maybe he knew how much it’d mess with his head.

It was— _nice_ , and it left him with _want_ tugging at his stomach, because of course he already wants more, greedy bastard that he is, he wants more now and forever. Which is, obviously, a problem. Because that’s his _partner_ who can barely hide his crush on Gaby and who would probably toss him out of a window if he propositioned to him. Yet, he _wants_.

God, he’s too tired and sore for this.

Gaby snorts, tilting her head to her right. “Out,” she says, like she can hardly believe it herself.

And, well—taking a quick look at the nearest window, the weather doesn’t seem to have improved much since when they were braving it out of necessity. What’s Illya _doing_ outside?

“Why?” he asks, slowly, though he suspects that the answer will not be any less ridiculous than he’s grown to expect from his partner.

“He wanted to take a look around, make sure that no one has followed us, that sort of thing,” she explains, her tone making it pretty clear what she thinks of it. Napoleon is of the opinion that if anyone had followed them and hadn’t died in the blizzard they probably would have been attacked by now. “You know how he is,” Gaby shrugs. “ _I_ wasn’t going to follow. Not now that the temperature in here is _decent_.”

He snorts. “I second that. If he dies out there I’m not getting him.” Which he supposes would be pretty rude after all the trouble Illya went through to keep him warm, but—ah, no, no thinking about the lap thing, nope, bad thoughts, really bad thoughts—

Without any sort of warning, Gaby darts forward and places both her palms to his temples, presumably to check that his skin has reached a reasonable temperature. Her hands at least don’t feel dead.

“Okay, good, you seem normal,” she comments, and the relieved edge in her voice is quite touching, really. Maybe a bit unnecessary, since he was probably out of danger once they got him somewhere dry and warm, but still.

He grins, because he’s an asshole. “Worried about me?”

She levels him with a _really_ unimpressed look. “Worried that we would have to try our chances with the shitty truck in the back. It probably would have collapsed half-way and left us stranded in the snow.”

“Ouch,” he says, his smile still lingering. “You wound me, Gaby. Right here.” He makes a show of pointing at his heart, she rolls her eyes and some of the leftover tension on his stomach melts, like he’s beginning to truly realize that the danger has passed.

Illya comes back almost half an hour later, pretty much covered in snow but announcing that he didn’t find anything amiss outside.

In that time, Napoleon hasn’t really left is nest on the armchair for longer than a few minutes, and when Gaby gets up first, to help Illya shrug off all the snow while she mercilessly points out that she _told him so_ , he takes a few moments to contemplate whether he should join or keep staring.

When Illya meets his eyes, he studies him with a frown. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Never better, all warmed up,” he announces, cheerfully. “And since I’m generous and your nose looks like it’s about to fall off, I’m going to share.” It should be noted that, while the words run smoothly out of his mouth, there’s someone _screaming_ in his head, possibly Mr Common Sense, echoed by Sir Self-Preservation, both highlighting that this is going to be so _terrible_ for his sanity, really, why is he doing this to himself? “So, want to join me under my nice blankets?”

Illya considers him for a few moments, possibly a little thrown, but apparently he’s cold enough that he takes it with a nod, which does—funny things to Napoleon’s poor heart.

Ah, well, he only has himself to blame this time.

In the time that it takes Illya to dry his hair as best as he can and get changed, while Gaby starts setting his clothes close enough to the fire that they should stop dripping in reasonable time, Napoleon runs through about twenty possible versions of how the next five minutes are going to play out, trying to at least be mentally prepared for—

Of course, the moment Illya drops next to him and nudges him into letting him join under the blankets, Napoleon’s traitorous brain malfunctions for the few seconds necessary for him to forget any and all opening lines he had prepared.

Well. He’ll have to deal.

He does his best to wrap Illya in the blankets, shifting closer to him because it’s made absolutely necessary by the fact that he doesn’t want to get cold either.

“ _Christ_ , are you dead?” he can’t help gasping, when he accidentally brushes his hand against Illya’s. He was even wearing _gloves_ , how is he so cold? “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Napoleon announces, with a deep, dramatic sigh, before turning a little more on his side and taking both of Illya’s hands into his own, pulling them on his lap and hoping to warm them up in reasonable time. It costs him a shiver or two, but still.

“I’m fine,” Illya eventually points out, because of course he has to make sure that Napoleon doesn’t get it into his head that he’s saving his life or anything.

“Shut up and let us warm you up,” Gaby says before Napoleon can comment. She proceeds to climb onto the armrest once again, because apparently she has taken residence there now, pressing herself against Illya’s half-turned back and tucking his head under her chin.

Napoleon doesn’t miss the little smile that immediately twists Illya’s lips at that, and it’s the most adorable sight that he has ever witnessed, honestly.

“Don’t you have the best partners in the world?” he teases, grinning from ear to ear because it’s as close as he can come to expressing the wave of affection that’s threatening to burst his chest wide open.

The look that Illya gives him says ‘ _Seriously_?’, but that little twitch of his lips that he apparently can’t quite control seems a lot like a very fond ‘yes’.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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